


in your veil of abyssal wishes

by WhimsicalSparky



Category: Vocaloid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Lovecraftian, Magic, Worldbuilding, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24415645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalSparky/pseuds/WhimsicalSparky
Summary: Len Kagamine isn't one to question the concepts of magic. But then a girl of teal hair like a ocean of corrosive acid appears before him... and asks his help to go back home—in the Abyss.(Of course she's from the Abyss.)
Relationships: Hatsune Miku/Kagamine Len
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	in your veil of abyssal wishes

**Author's Note:**

> *prays to the gods that this is somewhat comprehensible*

Len Kagamine isn't one to question the concepts of magic. As someone born from wishful thinking, gold and blood, it is in his nature to accept the rules as they are. There is a reason rules are written down and boundaries are established.

He walks past the woman screaming nonsense in the plaza, annoyed at how this theatrical scenario has become more common nowadays. She speaks of the Prophets and their words, which have chained the people to a hierarchy of inhumane power ruling over the magicless, in which the "normal" had turned into a burden, a reason for scorn.

It's ridiculous and embarrassing. Perhaps a little insulting for him alone.

He remembers when he was a mere idea, not truly dead or alive, always shifting and fleeting. Conscience is luxury. For beings like him, this is a jackpot. Len stares down to his left palm. The mark is there to confirm his birth as human.

The hysterical woman continues with her absurdities as the wind blows her hair back like purple whips and citizens declare her a heretic and picks up rocks. Officers come before the stoning begins; by that time, Len is near Coarsewort.

.

Home is a two-store building at the outskirts. It is no more than two large blocks piled onto one another, but the details make it cozy: a large rectangular window at the second floor, roof of red tiles and thin metal spirals for fence, blossoms thriving in boxes on the threshold to make a contrast to the bleaching yellow paint—he will remind himself to repaint the walls.

Home, indeed.

Len opens the door to reveal Meiko cooking at the stove. She hears his steps, however silent they may be, and smiles without turning away from the steak. "You're early today."

"Outsiders' nonsense. Classes were cancelled for three days."

Today's target of the protests was Shireast Institute of Magical Arts. Geomancy had begun when the explosives went off and sirens commanded all to leave. The sound had irritated Len to no end while he picked up his satchel and left along with his classmates and teacher. Then, cancellation was announced.

It wasn't the first time the Institute suffered a terrorist attack and surely won't be the last.

Her smile falls into a straight line. "The violence of the protests are gradually increasing, just how Avanna says." The name quakes with power in Len's nerves, knocks the air off his lungs. Meiko is not affected by the curses from the Prophets.

"Whatever, whatever. At least I'll have more time to research for my paper due next week. Add or correct some information."

Meiko hums, "Lunch will be done in some minutes. Take a shower, Len. Your sister will be back soon."

"Noted," and he climbs the stairs to his shared room. There, the messy condition Rin left her bed bothers him as much as this morning. It's not unlike her to wake up at the first rays of sunshine, forgetting about the blankets she kicked off the bed and the pillows sitting sadly at the bed's foot.

He understands the importance of balance. Rin is the messy burst of life to his organized whisper of death. The uncontrollable, ever-hungry fire to his inevitable, patient ice. Two sides of the same coin—the coin they were born from, submerged in the well's water and Meiko's blood.

It's not unlike her to do this. It doesn't mean it stops him from grimacing.

Len enters the bathroom before he loses it.

.

Meiko is to him what humans call a mother, although his birth is unnatural. She hands him the plate of rice, steak and banana slices, and he feels the warmth which has his lips spread in a smile.

His mind doesn't stop, continues answering the same internal questions he'd answered years ago. Obsessively. This body is seventeen solar rotations of age and sometimes he still thinks the mark will be an illusion and he'll see himself shifting, his reality shattering because the idea has changed.

What is seventeen years to a vague concept that existed for longer than the Prophets with eyes to see the infinitum and ears to hear the whispers of gods?

He has the right to doubt.

Len stabs down the banana slice with more strength than necessary when Rin kicks open the door, with leaves on her knotted hair and a mischievous cat-like grin. Any person would question whether this Rin is a changeling, but Len recognizes those wide colorless eyes anywhere.

That 'owo' face, as she herself calls it.

"You're late," Meiko says with a scolding tone that doesn't hang in the air. There is no tension so Rin laughs it off, fingers running through locks of gold to remove the leaves. "I hope you didn't knock a poor bastard out cold over tea again."

"Nah! Just took a path through some backyards. I might've scratched my knees on thorns but that's about it!" Rin declares like it's something to be proud of—knowing her, it probably is to her.

"Sister, please," he pleads. Gestures to a plate waiting for her on his side. He's been making sure her lunch didn't go cold and he's tired.

Realization. "Oh, lunch! Of course! Thanks, Len."

Meiko and Len finish their share and Rin gobbles down hers shortly after. Rin is messy which extends to her wild way to eat, the way she swallows forkfuls of rice and steak with short pauses for breathing and sucking the orange dry. It's both a disgusting and concerning sight, but not one either of them aren't used to.

At least he's done before her.

Once the plates are clean and Rin is done with removing the leaves, the siblings leave to their shared room upstairs. Len doesn't waste time to hiss, "Grab your things off the floor," at Rin and walk to his desk. His paper research is waiting for him.

"'Kay, bro," she scoffs, still smiling.

Len sits. Opens the bigger book of dark brown cover on his right and shuffles after the page he was on. Chapter 24, page 371. The fundamentals of adaptive magic. Magic that channels from the surroundings, changes accordingly to the state of things and taps on the fleeting.

He opens a small book on his left, blue cover and the pages yellowing out. There were annotations somewhere in Fukase's memoirs. Page 47— _'A natural talent to reach the ever-changing is not unheard of, though remains relatively uncommon in comparison to solid magic.'_

He grabs his own notebook in the drawer. He writes down the rules and makes connections to his art. _'The weather follows patterns, but doesn't remain static. When the sun is bright and merciless in the cloudless sky, my flames burn just as bright. And when it vanishes beneath the thick cover of angry gray clouds, the embers are replaced by droplets and water drips from between my palms.'_

Hm. He makes a few more annotations to remind himself to rephrase this better. He returns to the fundamentals, honestly glad he can research adaptive magic since it's the classification of his magic: meteoromancy, the art of channeling weather's elementals.

Ever since Mrs. Haruno told him of it, he's been curious about it. He ponders whether he was granted control over such art due to his nature or if it's a coincidence. Rin is focused on physical force and enhancement rather than raw control of magical flow, so he can't say for sure. He can't confirm this with his complement.

So he keeps looking. Not everything will be on his paper because otherwise it would be too long, but it's an opportunity and he's not afraid to call himself opportunistic in this case.

Once he deems enough for the paper, he marks the page on the book so he may continue later for his personal reasons. He is missing only one classification before he can declare it done. His skin crawls as he flips to the next chapter.

Chapter 25. True chaos.

Len isn't one to question the concepts of magic. However, this is something he irrationally loathes due to his nature. True chaos, the magic of the Abyss. Ever-changing and unchanging at the same time. Violating the flow of time and the structure of space with a mere mention of its name. Love and hatred, light and darkness, everything melts and becomes one.

_'Do not try to understand it, for your efforts to apply logic on the impossible will drive you mad.'_

Information on it is sparse. It's a unspoken rule to maintain true chaos a mystery, because not even gods are able to describe it in words that don't burst their eardrums, maims their throat and rots them from inside out. It doesn't like to be described logically. It is a lover of metaphors and symbolisms.

The warning is the only thing that sounds logical before the barrage of impossibilities walking on the flowery field of the darkest purple narrative that follows it.

Len slams the book shut, unable to withstand it merely existing. He traces his mark, carved on his palm since birth—a bass clef within a diamond within a circle of clouds. It is smooth when he brushes his right thumb over it, but if he focuses on every curve and line he can feel the warmth of his mother's blood being shed that day for his life, glimmering like liquid rubies beneath his skin.

He can feel that yearn of hers, burning like a sun. He can hear her breathless wish a minute before the coin hits the water— _"I want children whom I can love and can love me. I want the children I was denied to have. I want the children stolen from my womb that day."_ —and the small sacrifice made that filled the wish-granting well with power, and the coin splits in half and warps in the frigid water and warm blood to form him and Rin—

Len shakes his head. These aren't thoughts fit for a human. He shouldn't lose himself. Right now he's not an idea, he is human and ought to act as one. Humans don't have complex feelings over their birth. Hell, he shouldn't even _remember_ being born, even less with such uncomfortable (for human standards) clarity.

"Brother, you should drink water," Rin says behind him and startles him with a glass of water. He takes it. "It's not cool to watch you contort into yourself, you know? You think too much."

"I-in contrast to you who doesn't think at all," he chokes out; he didn't realize he was so breathless.

Rin presses a hand on her chest. "Ouch, you hurt me with that bluntness," her tone is mocking so he gives her no attention. The water is welcoming cold—pleasantly cold, so very unlike the well— _stop thinking about it, I am human_ —and calms his nerves. "Now, what stressed you this time?"

"True chaos." A slight snapping tone.

"Oh?"

"It is a classification and therefore I must write down for my paper, but Gods be damned and curse my name, I _loathe_ it. I _loathe_ being reminded that a place like the Abyss exists."

Rin tilts her head. "You are the order of the pair. It makes sense it disturbs you so much." Rin doesn't say it in a way that insults his intelligence.

"That's not the point. Doesn't it disturb you too? You being chaos here is not an excuse."

"I suppose it does. I don't look it up since I don't tap into magic like you do, but… yeah. I mean, who doesn't? I like my sanity, alright?" She tries to sit on his desk and he slaps her hand away before she can consider. "Can't you skip it?"

"No, I am to write every classification. I thought of delaying this part till friday but now that classes were cancelled, I have more time and I can't half-ass this as I planned. Mrs. Haruno will be disappointed in me."

"Oof, well. Good luck, bro."

Len pauses, still as a statue. Then he stands up suddenly, prompting a squeak from his sister, and grabs his notebook and pencil case. "I gotta go to the public library. I need more studies about true chaos."

"Hey hey, whoa! It's almost evening! Do you think Mom will let you?"

Len turns to the window and widens his eyes at the sunset colors seeping through the curtains. It was barely noon when he began writing. Time passes so fast when he is focused. He curses in an arcane language under his breath, and sighs. "I'm not you, Rin."

Her annoyed face is the last thing he sees before he climbs down the stairs and rushes to Meiko who is watching television. The talk is straight to the point—"I need more books about a specific magic classification at the library. Yes, I know I could wait until tomorrow but I need everything as soon as possible. I can save them up for tomorrow."—and he's granted permission.

If he returns before six.

.

Coarsewort Public Library—a ten minutes long walk on foot. The snow white building with a clocktower looming above the entire town. The shimmering golden hands mark 16:37. The silver-framed, hexagon-shaped windows have specks of dust on the corners, though the glass still reflects sunlight perfectly.

Len pushes open the door, letting out a sigh at the blow of cold air on his face. He dashes to the counter and asks the librarian about studies of true chaos. Mirai shivers and frowns. "Why, Len? You hate illogical stuff," she states.

"School work. I am required to research the classifications of magic."

A moment of silence. Mirai's stare sends chills down his spine; he doesn't surrender to intimidation. She breaks the tension with a chuckle. "I forget you're a student of the Institute. In the section of dark arts."

He nods and ignores her joking plea for him to not accidentally summon any demons in the library. That section would be off limits if he was a fool. The Institute does not allow fools in the campus. She doesn't think him a fool, it's just that he doesn't really like jokes.

The section of dark arts is the emptiest, both in content and people. Only two others search among the available books besides Len. Understandable, for only a few are willing to look into dark arts.

Len looks for anything mentioning true chaos; he brushes his fingers on different textures for covers after something that rings right. He pulls out a faded yellow book from the shelves and skims the pages—unimportant facts, incomplete descriptions that feel empty, next. He pulls out another of leather cover and silver writing—metaphors that only speak of warnings, subjects already present in his paper, next.

He keeps looking. Cracked cover that feels like wood, words printed out in blackberry ink—too vague even for the true chaos, the author is a paranoid coward who blabbers about vicious shadows in their room. A yellowed scroll of bronze and granite—this is plain gibberish that any creature of the Abyss would feel offended at, he can't bother with such a weak attempt.

In the end, he scavenges three books. Three interesting perspectives of the Abyss and true chaos. Even to Len's logical mind, the texts make more sense than the senseless efforts of previous authors. Some really don't heed the warning to abandon any attempts to understand the Abyss through logic.

His cheek feels wet. He wipes it clean and his finger is dyed red. Oh, blood. His eyes bled. He should've expected his contrasting nature to react this way. No matter, it's manageable.

He brings the books to the counter. "What's the time, Mrs. Komachi?"

"Ah. 17:40."

He splutters. Oh Lady Kokone above the heavens, have mercy on him. He slides the two thickest books to Mirai's side and presses the other against his chest. "Please save these for me tomorrow and I'll take this one. Mother requested me to return before six."

"Understood."

.

Len returns before six as permitted.

Rin is grinning at her bed, not expecting anything less than responsible from him.

The book he brought has less pages than Fukase's memoirs. Plain black cover, the title is written with white marker, the library seal printed on the first page to remind him that he didn't steal this directly from the author's house. It resembles a notebook more than a proper book.

It's completely dedicated to the Abyss. The annotations are hastily done but he can feel the pressure in every letter, sanity slipping away with every page. It's almost as if this was written as the author witnessed the impossibilities. It's strangely familiar.

He was an idea, after all. He knows vagueness.

The 30th page is the last. It has a short message: _'Rejection is worse.'_

It feels more like a slap on his face.

.

Len didn't touch the subject the entire Wednesday night out of disgust and dread. On Thursday, he leaves to the library after breakfast.

He snaps out of his daze when he hears yelling. It's the woman of yesterday. Her purple hair is the same collection of sharp wires he's sure that could cut through skin if he holds them wrongly. She doesn't feel his glare, for she's busy spreading those heretic thoughts. He wonders how she avoided execution.

Len careens to her, annoyance like a knife on his face. "Excuse me, miss," he calls and she halts to address him. "What do you expect to earn with this madness? The people do not listen to your insanity. Wouldn't it be better for all if you went back home?"

The woman flashes an angry grin. "Certainly, the Prophets have blinded us all. You may not understand, boy, but I have opened my eyes and realized how unfair it is. Freedom is a foreign concept, is it not? We don't know true freedom."

"What is freedom to you?"

If it was physically possible, her grin would split her skin open to show an array of crooked teeth. "Speech. To leave this hexahedron of a nation whenever we please. Perform all kinds of arts. The Prophets deny us the freedom and control us with lies they declare as truths from the gods."

"You know demise will come were you to continue."

"I do not fear them. To the earth may I return."

"Hm." If this was a different situation, his eyes would sparkle with awe before the woman's boldness. Stupid nature of his, forcing him to waste time. "You do you. It's not under my responsibility to drag you by the hair to the gallows."

Her grin softens. "I like you, boy. I am Qingxian."

"What's this, exchanging names? We aren't companions," he snarls.

"Just remember me in case something abnormal happens and the Prophets come clawing your ankles. I might help." _That is, if you live another day,_ he huffs mentally. However, he can't deny how there is no trace of teasing in her voice—she is sincerely offering help.

Len turns away. He has to pick the books Mirai saved for him. The walk feels longer due to his hyperactive brain. Small talk won't bring trouble and there were barely any people around to watch him and Qingxian's conversation.

If Qingxian is still alive after her near public stoning yesterday, then today will be a spring breeze for her.

Mornings are slightly different in the library. It's quiet as libraries should be, though it's because of less people than the silence rule. Mirai is penning down orders for more books to be added to the archive when Len taps on the counter and she looks up from the paperwork.

"Oh, Len. The books, correct?" She turns to grab them. She tries to lighten up the mood; he must be looking gloomy: "I assume your homework is taking a toll on you. You hate this kind of stuff and well… this subject is sensitive even to strong minds."

"Mrs. Haruno wants me to write about the fundamentals, but it's hard to pinpoint them in true chaos. I need references to avoid a weak argument."

"Indeed," she says and hands him the books.

This time, Len walks to a vacant table. Despite bringing his notebook and pencil case yesterday, he didn't use them in his rush to find something worthy of his time. Well, he has time today.

Skipping the unnecessary introductions to the chapters that matter takes little time, although he sees interesting points being made for dark arts and he writes down for later—his section about dark arts is somewhat lacking anyways, so Len deems deeper insights about blood sacrifices and moonless summonings to be helpful.

Around page 420, he finds the section for the Abyss. He wrecks his brain to find the thin threads of sanity—or whatever the Abyss deems "sanity" in its bowls—in the sentences. _Don't make it logical or you'll be driven mad_ , he reminds himself and carefully crafts metaphors. It proves to be a challenge.

Len pauses before his eyes bleed again. His nature is troublesome when facing things that don't follow rules, and at these times he wonders why he wasn't born with Rin's talent instead. Less brain-wrecking and more bone-breaking. At least Rin could withstand this better than himself.

He only doesn't hand her the task of researching about true chaos because she doesn't understand metaphors.

Hmm.

.

It's noon when he's done with the main bulk of it. Now, he can adjust some points later and never look at this ever again.

He returns the books to their designed places. This time his eyes didn't bleed—thankfully, his plan of taking breaks worked. Mirai chuckles and makes another joke when he walks past her, though his exhausted mind doesn't process it.

His way back home is consisted of cleaning his mind of anything related to true chaos. _You think too much_ , Rin's words resound and he agrees. And it's not human to think this deeply into a subject. It makes his brain pound and pulse painfully, about to crack open his skull and burst out.

Len wonders how it is to have a human brain. It must be… quieter. Simpler.

A whistling is caught by his ears and Len jolts out of his trance, right hand exploding in flames instinctively. Silence, except for his breathing and the wind. The sun burns above. The flames dissipate. Was it his imagination? _Len is getting paranoid again_ , he can hear Rin mocking him from afar.

He walks. Calms down. A turn to the right before the Nakajima's general store and all the way forward until he sees home. Maybe if he recites directions, the headache will stop.

Maybe he should avoid his paper for the next few days.

Maybe—

—he ought to pay more attention to his magic acting up again.

Len stops in front of his house and turns to the alley on the opposite side. The buildings surrounding it pour shadows over the narrow space and the trash cans. He doesn't have to strain his eyes to notice the writhing and bubbling. Familiar considering one of his classmates wields shadow magic.

Not that Ruko's shadows could bubble to the air as dripping octagons which shift to colors of distant stars in the stage of supernova before they turn into black holes when they touch sunlight.

This is a very specific description.

"I know you are there," Len sneers. Embers form spirals around his arm, a command away to burst into the flames once more. When the unnatural shadows remain bubbling like boiling water, the already cracked mask of calm shatters. "Show yourself, unholy creature! Or I'll burn you here and now."

It's not unheard of that some can walk through shadows, it is a basic skill of sciomancy after all—and yet, just like the way those shadows bubbled, the thing rising from that sludge-like darkness feels wrong. Dread crawls up his spine, freezing cold and sharp, and he can't maintain focus on his fire. A feminine human body shapes itself and his heart jumps to his throat.

The sludge slides off like water. Len's legs almost give in to weakness.

Of course there are many things wrong with this girl—can he even call _this_ a girl when his very core screams danger?—and Len can name her power that resembles a unholy cross of shadow and water and her clear violation of the most basic rules of modesty.

But he's lost in her hair shimmering teal of oceans that flow with corrosive acid and the darkest eyes reflecting dead galaxies within godless dimensions and unspeakable atrocities and impossible beauty in the void. Veins and arteries glow in dawn and dusk hues beneath superficially human skin. When her tied twintails slightly move with the wind, they send a crushing air of superiority at him.

Regal in a chaotic way.

He stumbles and screams the loudest he can without exploding his lungs in the process: "Stay the fuck away from me, abomination from the Abyss! Queen of acid oceans!"

The young monarch flashes a smile he can only interpret as cruel.


End file.
